Two weeks ago I became a grandpa. Yesterday I became a "former bishop". And shortly I will leave my current employment as I begin the next leg of my professional journey. The end of June we will move to a new town in a new state. The experience of waking up the morning after important changes in life is one worth noting. Others have helpfully suggested how I should or might feel about these important events. I'm still figuring out how I feel about change in general but do have some thoughts accumulated the morning after a couple of these events.
The morning after becoming a grandpa, my first waking thought was that now I am married to a grandma. Yikes! I realize that this means my lovely bride is now married to a grandpa but somehow it felt to me that I was the one that got older while she stayed the same age. My image of a grandma is viewed through the lens of my own experience with my special, old-fashioned grandmothers. They were fun, energetic older women who had long since raised their own children. They were spunky with energy to spare while playing with me as a boy, had endless patience with me as I went through the awkward middle school years, and were there to dispense white haired wisdom as I moved from teenager to adult. For as long as I can remember they seemed to be much older and wiser than I would ever be. So, as much as I have always loved and admired my grandmas, I never in my wildest dreams ever imagined being old enough to be married to one.
I remember once when we called one of my grandmas to wish her well on her 88th birthday. The daughter who just made me a grandpa was just a tiny girl then and she asked my grandma, "How old are you?". "I'm 88 years old, sweetheart" grandma replied, to which my daughter exclaimed, "WOW, that's old!". My grandma chuckled as she always did. The morning after realizing I am now married to a grandma I think I felt a little bit like my little daughter did. Wow!
After being released as bishop a number of people asked how it felt. Some suggested I should feel relieved while others mentioned the inevitable let down to follow. I just went home from Church afterwards, took a nap and then hung out with my family. It was great! One of the new counselors stopped by later in the afternoon with his kids and some "thank you" cookies. I asked how his day was going and he said he was on his way back up to the church to finish some accounting duties. I smiled and wished him well in his new assignment.
And now the morning after I realize that it is time for me to press forward in my own personal spiritual journey. I need to keep doing the small things that bishops and missionaries have ever counseled people to do- pray regularly and sincerely, study the scriptures, honor sacred covenants, be obedient, be humble, seek inspiration and guidance from Heavenly Father, and continue serving others. I look forward to all of these though I realize that during the transition months to come it will be a challenge to maintain any sort of routine.
But hey, regularity seems to be the perfect goal for someone who's now married to a grandma.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Sorting Hat
A couple days ago I overheard a little boy in Church mistake "Heavenly Father" for "Harry Potter". Worth a good smile and it also started me thinking about fun things I associate with Harry Potter. Like my son Jordan reading all of the books while still in elementary school. His class that year received points for reading. A book was assigned points based on its reading level and on how many pages it had. The Harry Potter books were a big hit and they were worth a ton of points, as I recall; a single Harry Potter book was worth about twenty "Captain Underpants" books. Jordan loved the series and would have read every book regardless, but he also enjoyed the fact that every time he read a Harry Potter book his class' point total about doubled.
From that train of thought my mind turned to the scene in the first Potter movie when Harry was selected to be a part of the Griffendor house. The selection was made by an old floppy, "sorting" hat. The hat was placed on the students head whereupon it would magically determine and shout out the right house for each of the newcomers to Hogwarts' school. Sometimes I wish I owned a sorting hat of my very own. It certainly would come in handy for sorting out the answers to some of life's persistent questions. And it had a great brim that would provide terrific sun protection.
From that train of thought my mind turned to the scene in the first Potter movie when Harry was selected to be a part of the Griffendor house. The selection was made by an old floppy, "sorting" hat. The hat was placed on the students head whereupon it would magically determine and shout out the right house for each of the newcomers to Hogwarts' school. Sometimes I wish I owned a sorting hat of my very own. It certainly would come in handy for sorting out the answers to some of life's persistent questions. And it had a great brim that would provide terrific sun protection.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Oops...where'd the time go?
Puxatony Phil just announced there will be 6 more weeks of winter. "If only", was my first reaction; Minnesota winters rarely end by mid-March. My next thought was to realize its been most of the winter since I jotted down a thought or two on this blog. The habit of regular writing has always been a hard one to establish. A couple of years ago a woman I know through work (and riding the bus) began telling me of her interest in writing children's stories. She had recently won an award for one of her short stories and had begun work on her first novel. Her mother was so excited about it that she helped her daughter set up and fund an annual writing contest. The prize is awarded to the best "short story" written on a selected theme each year. "Just write something every day", she would tell me.
This advice echoes what I've grown up hearing in other settings- keep a journal, jot down thoughts and feelings, create a record of experiences and moments of gratitude. Years ago I wrote a series of essays about the 1980s. Reading those now sort of makes me cringe because they were written by a younger me at a time in life when I had a pretty inflated sense of myself. Uffdah! Recently my sister gave me a nice new journal which sits on my nightstand...mostly gathering dust next to a couple other nearly empty journals I've acquired over the years. Each was purchased with similar good intentions. And yet in spite of these good intentions and how inspired I've felt at times to fill these journals with pithy prose, the habit of regular writing remains largely unformed. So I ask myself what my excuse is and where did the time go.
The truth is that my excuses are pretty thin. Part of it may be that I haven't defined my audience. Another may be the unflattering truth that I kind of yearn for an audience to encourage and cajole me to "write me another story". I don't know, but writing for myself seems a little narcissistic as does "writing for my posterity". Call it false humility, but my life isn't really ginning out the kind of experiences or events that make for a real page turner. No close encounters with wandering bandits, international terrorists or laughable comedians. Sure the people I live, work and interact with each have their own rich and interesting lives, with stories that have the normal ups and downs mingled with excitement. But it would take a higher level of skill than I possess to really capture their essence and do justice to their stories.
I'd like to think I have the potential to become a good writer that could tell interesting stories based on my experiences or the experiences of those I've met. Maybe even write a novel someday. And yet thus far I've lacked the fundamental discipline or creativity or inspiration or bankroll or cottage on the lake or driving competitiveness, or whatever else it is that's needed to succeed as a writer a world where "pretty good" writers are a dime a dozen.
Just writing that last paragraph has helped me realize that part of the reason I haven't cultivated the talent or formed the habit of regular writing is fear. Fear of wasting time, fear of writing something truly uninspiring, fear of laying it on the line and putting my heart and soul into something that others then find as stale as day old bread. Which is really a pretty poor excuse if you think about it. Because much of the value of writing comes the same way that learning comes to a teacher. The person attempting to teach regularly learns more than the student. Perhaps too with the writer: he just may learn a thing or two more than a reader could ever possibly do. In the process of creating and distilling and crafting the words into sentences and paragraphs, thoughts connect, themes emerge and direction appears. Finding a way to capture that process and preserve it for future reference is the key.
There is a more subtle form of fear lurking there in the shadows. And that is the fear of being either so boring or so irrelevant that whatever you write really doesn't matter to anybody. I've had the experience of reading my own journal entries from years past and thinking, "that's sure boring stuff" or "what a waste of paper and ink". Perhaps that's why the best writers find new and interesting ways to describe adventurous characters engaged in swashbuckling events. Its much harder to breathe life into the creases of everyday events. Yet there is certainly beauty in the routine and the mundane details of life. The challenge is to find the right words that reveal that beauty for all to see and enjoy.
This advice echoes what I've grown up hearing in other settings- keep a journal, jot down thoughts and feelings, create a record of experiences and moments of gratitude. Years ago I wrote a series of essays about the 1980s. Reading those now sort of makes me cringe because they were written by a younger me at a time in life when I had a pretty inflated sense of myself. Uffdah! Recently my sister gave me a nice new journal which sits on my nightstand...mostly gathering dust next to a couple other nearly empty journals I've acquired over the years. Each was purchased with similar good intentions. And yet in spite of these good intentions and how inspired I've felt at times to fill these journals with pithy prose, the habit of regular writing remains largely unformed. So I ask myself what my excuse is and where did the time go.
The truth is that my excuses are pretty thin. Part of it may be that I haven't defined my audience. Another may be the unflattering truth that I kind of yearn for an audience to encourage and cajole me to "write me another story". I don't know, but writing for myself seems a little narcissistic as does "writing for my posterity". Call it false humility, but my life isn't really ginning out the kind of experiences or events that make for a real page turner. No close encounters with wandering bandits, international terrorists or laughable comedians. Sure the people I live, work and interact with each have their own rich and interesting lives, with stories that have the normal ups and downs mingled with excitement. But it would take a higher level of skill than I possess to really capture their essence and do justice to their stories.
I'd like to think I have the potential to become a good writer that could tell interesting stories based on my experiences or the experiences of those I've met. Maybe even write a novel someday. And yet thus far I've lacked the fundamental discipline or creativity or inspiration or bankroll or cottage on the lake or driving competitiveness, or whatever else it is that's needed to succeed as a writer a world where "pretty good" writers are a dime a dozen.
Just writing that last paragraph has helped me realize that part of the reason I haven't cultivated the talent or formed the habit of regular writing is fear. Fear of wasting time, fear of writing something truly uninspiring, fear of laying it on the line and putting my heart and soul into something that others then find as stale as day old bread. Which is really a pretty poor excuse if you think about it. Because much of the value of writing comes the same way that learning comes to a teacher. The person attempting to teach regularly learns more than the student. Perhaps too with the writer: he just may learn a thing or two more than a reader could ever possibly do. In the process of creating and distilling and crafting the words into sentences and paragraphs, thoughts connect, themes emerge and direction appears. Finding a way to capture that process and preserve it for future reference is the key.
There is a more subtle form of fear lurking there in the shadows. And that is the fear of being either so boring or so irrelevant that whatever you write really doesn't matter to anybody. I've had the experience of reading my own journal entries from years past and thinking, "that's sure boring stuff" or "what a waste of paper and ink". Perhaps that's why the best writers find new and interesting ways to describe adventurous characters engaged in swashbuckling events. Its much harder to breathe life into the creases of everyday events. Yet there is certainly beauty in the routine and the mundane details of life. The challenge is to find the right words that reveal that beauty for all to see and enjoy.
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